


Please Let Me Touch You

by Lovefushsia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkward John, Bathing/Washing, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Janine is not in Sherlock's bedroom, John struggles with his desires, Light Angst, M/M, Mention of scars, Naked Sherlock, Takes place after John finds Sherlock in the drug den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7857268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lovefushsia/pseuds/Lovefushsia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John struggles with his feelings after bringing Sherlock home from the drugs den.</p><p>He just wants to help, and the guilt at abandoning his friend is making him crazy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Please Let Me Touch You

“Don’t go into my bedroom, John.” Sherlock’s words resounded as John walked along the hallway and put his hand to the door. He nudged it open with his foot and then his hand fell away as he scanned the interior. It was a mess, barely recognisable, and John swallowed on a lump in his throat that replaced, for a moment, the lingering anger over where he had found Sherlock that morning.

He quashed any thoughts as to how much worse it could have been if he hadn’t been there to get Sherlock out. They had to work together on this. Not on the case, that was a given, but getting Sherlock clean – he would not let this spiral.

He moved quickly through the room, not intending to pry, just picking up clothing and throwing what he could into the laundry hamper, shaking out Sherlock’s dressing gown and re-hanging it gently on the back of the door. The bed was unmade but didn’t look slept in so John straightened the pillows, pulled the covers up. He pushed open the window and stepped back out of the room, closing the door with a click. He heard a splash of water and turned to the bathroom door.

His heart was frantic, his breath hitched as he tapped on the door. There was a soft grunt from inside and John didn’t hesitate. He turned the handle. Unlocked. John peered around the door frame and cleared his throat. Sherlock turned his head as John scanned his naked form. He tried for a moment to conceal the anguish and hurt at what he saw. He knew he had failed his friend and really this whole morning was a pointless waste if he tried to hide from Sherlock what he was really feeling. “How...?” He reached out, drew a very gentle finger over the too-recent scars on pale skin. Too skinny, too pale, and these horrendous scars in stark contrast. “How did I not know about these?” he whispered, a little more harshly than he meant to.

Sherlock turned fully towards him and their eyes met again. There was pain, sadness, apology and John couldn’t bear it.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You don’t need to tell me.”

Sherlock lowered his gaze and his whole body sagged. John reached out, hands on either side of his shoulders but not touching.

“I just need to get clean, John.”

“Let me help?” John asked softly, and he meant completely clean - off the drugs, for good this time. He wasn’t certain his friend meant the same thing. Sherlock stepped away, into the bath without testing the water and he turned off the taps once he’d sat down. John sat on the stool beside the bath, facing Sherlock. He rested his elbows on his knees, chin in his palms. “What can I do?” he asked as he watched Sherlock begin to wet his arms and chest.

“I’m fine John, really. I made it through the last month without your assistance.”

“But you didn’t need to Sherlock, I was right there, at the end of the phone.” Even to himself that sounded stupid. He should have been _here_. He should have been here.

Sherlock just carried on with his washing, wetting his hair now, curls flattening out with each handful of water. And John swallowed on a something... some word or feeling stuck in his chest that he didn’t know how to release.

John could only watch while Sherlock soaped himself up, working off the grime from that shithole he’d been in for who knew how long? “What the _hell_ were you playing at, Sherlock?”

Sherlock jumped at John’s sudden outburst and smeared shampoo bubbles over his face as he did so. “What the-” he spluttered, trying to clear his eyes and nose and John cursed to himself and looked around for a facecloth, hurriedly passing it to his friend.

“Sorry, I’m-” When he realised Sherlock couldn’t actually see what John was offering he knelt by the edge of the bath and cupped his left hand gently around the back of Sherlock’s head, wiped the cloth carefully over his friend’s eyes and down, wiping the foam from his nose and mouth and batting Sherlock’s hands away a couple of times.

“Ah, right. Thank you,” Sherlock said when John sat back on his heels.

“I’m sorry,” John said again, already wishing he could stop apologising, he didn’t want Sherlock to think it was just words. “I’m not good at this, you know me that well. But Sherlock, please, you have to give me something here. Promise me you’ll stay out of those places. I can’t lose you like that. I won’t,” he finally whispered urgently.

Sherlock watched him carefully for a moment before sliding down a little in the water and beginning to rinse out his hair. “It’s ok John, I deserve it, I know.”

“No, no,” John frowned and pointed a finger at his friend. “No. You don’t deserve this Sherlock. Not this and not those scars...” he nearly choked on the word, “on your back. You are a good man. I just want to help you.” When he was finished his knees were quivering and his hands were clammy (maybe just from the steam) and he felt as if he’d opened up more so than ever before. Sherlock was staring at him.

“You help, John, just by being here, I promise you.” He ducked himself, his whole body and hair under the water for a second before emerging, hair slicked back by bubbly hands and water rushing down his lean chest.

John swallowed hard. _Will you tell me what happened? Will you let me hold you?_ “Are you-” he started. _Please God, let me touch you._ “How do you feel?”

“Never better, I assure you,” Sherlock told him and he was smiling. It was good to see, even though it was hard to believe his words. “Could you pass me a towel?” Sherlock asked as John looked on, speechless now, completely dumbfounded by this vision of his friend – naked, soaking, vulnerable really, just trusting and sure of John’s loyalty, and regard for his well-being.

“Yes,” John finally murmured, and before he knew it Sherlock was rising out of the water, stepping out of the bath onto the bathmat beside him. John quickly got to his feet and shoved the facecloth towards Sherlock.

“Something a little bigger?” he said, and John’s cheeks flushed and he grabbed the first towel his hand fell on. “Thank you, John,” Sherlock murmured, as he began to pat himself down.

John realised he was staring again and lowered his eyes but as he did so Sherlock raised the towel to his head and John nearly squealed. “I’ll er... be somewhere else,” he stammered, and he turned and fled. He didn’t imagine Sherlock in the bathroom at all after that, he studied the sparse contents of the fridge before pacing the living room, back to the kitchen and around through the hall, checking the door to the bathroom each time with a sly glance to his right, both relieved and disappointed each time Sherlock didn’t emerge. He jumped a foot when he heard Sherlock’s voice behind him.

“Did you bring any biscuits?”

John spun around and Sherlock was standing there, dressing gown flowing over pyjama bottoms, towelling his hair with one hand. The curls were already springing up around his ears. Oh God, he was beautiful. “Biscuits?” he murmured. He didn’t want to talk about biscuits. He shook his head.

“Shame, Mrs Hudson won’t let me raid her supply anymore.”

“Are you hungry? We can go downstairs, or order in, you need to eat Sherlock,” John went on, in doctor mode for his own protection, grabbing onto the food thing to distract himself.

“I’m not,” Sherlock said, and he sat down on his chair, perched on the edge while he continued to rub at his hair.

 John was hypnotised. “Hmm,” he murmured. “Well, I’d like to stay here, if you don’t mind,” he said quietly. He didn’t want to leave. And it wasn’t so much to keep Sherlock safe right now as wanting to lick him all over and mess up those curls as he pulled them through his fingers during a kissing match.

“You can stay. Your room is how you left it.”

“You didn’t change anything? Why?”

“I knew you’d be back,” Sherlock said, and John frowned.

“What do you mean?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Sherlock said, stretching and yawning dramatically and John tried to avoid it, tried to stop his eyes wandering down the full expanse of Sherlock’s lean chest and toned stomach, but he had to sit down when he glanced to the waistband of those pyjamas. Sherlock came out of the stretch and looked directly at John again, resting an elbow on the arm of his chair as he relaxed. “John, I know why you want to stay.”

“You do?” He couldn’t possibly.

“Of course. You want to make sure I don’t take anything else. I can assure you that I won’t.”

John sighed in double relief. He hoped Sherlock meant it. He planned to ensure he did.

***

John lay on his back, twisting a little, trying to get comfortable. He couldn’t get thoughts of Sherlock out of his head - the draw he felt to his friend physically, the relief that he was ok; the horror of his scars and what they meant. And when the hell had that happened? When he was lost for two years or when he returned? They were recent that much was obvious. How had John let them drift so far from each other that he had no idea what Sherlock had been through to get those?

It was so frustrating, he was the worst friend imaginable to have let this happen. And for Sherlock to have let things go so much to be in such a state, and to be in a fucking drugs den - John sat up and scrubbed his hands through his hair. John didn’t give a crap whether Sherlock had been there for a case or not, the fact was he’d been an idiot and he hadn’t asked John for help, and that was John’s fault for not being there. He wanted to cry out but he didn’t want to wake Sherlock.

He swung his legs out of the bed and sat up. He wondered if Sherlock was sleeping. He must be tired and John hoped that he was able to rest. He opened his door quietly, stepped over the creaky floorboard and tiptoed down the stairs.

On his way to boil the kettle he glanced into the living room and there on the sofa was Sherlock, turned towards the back cushions, knees drawn up, in his favourite position.

John forgot about tea and pulled a blanket from the back of his chair, smiling sadly as he draped it over his friend. He couldn’t go back to bed and leave him there so he squeezed carefully onto the end of the sofa, shifting Sherlock’s feet gently onto his lap so he could sit. He lay his head back and closed his eyes, rubbing slow circles over his friend’s ankles and thinking of the first time he had found Sherlock in this position. Back then he would have just left him to his own devices with a shake of the head and the knowledge that Sherlock didn’t need or want his help or comfort. Now, John was determined to give him all the support he could. Whether Sherlock would resist was something John was willing to work with.  


End file.
